Three Strange Days
by paperbkryter
Summary: During the episode Faith Sam spends three days scouring the internet. So what was Dean doing during those three days? A little soul searching maybe? Contains spoilers for all three seasons.
1. Day 1

**Author's Note:** I've been cleaning out the hard-drive lately. I've got all this stuff in there I started one, two, and sometimes three seasons ago that I never finished for various reasons. A lot of the time it's just because I lost confidence in the piece. In revisiting some of them I'm finding them too far along NOT to complete. I figure even if I've lost confidence in them, they may appeal to someone out there. It seems a pity to waste all the work I did put into them even if it turns out my lack of confidence was justified

Anyway. This was started sometime in season two. I added a bit here and there early in last season. I've just now finished it. Given the events of the S3 finale I thought this would be a good time to bring it to light.

My inspiration was from – obviously – the S1 episode Faith, and specifically Sam's line about "scouring the Internet for the past three days." Oh really? Hmm. So while Sam was busy doing that, what was Dean doing?

I'll be posting it in 3 or 4 sections.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

-T

* * *

I am a dumbass.

That's what I want carved into my headstone.

I mean, come on! I admit that I didn't always pay attention in school, when we actually got the chance to _go_ to school, but I musta been paying attention somewhere. I know that electricity and water don't play well together. Hell, that's why you use electricity to off a freakin' rawhead in the first place!

So what did my dumb ass go and do? It got itself got electrocuted because I was layin' in a puddle playing hero with a damn taser. Now I'm stuck in this cruddy room with a TV that only picks up five channels, eatin' food that tastes like sawdust, and being harassed by nurses who look like Meatloaf in drag. Hell would be more fun. Definitely more interesting.

Did I mention I'm dying? Probably should include that part. One hundred thousand volts isn't good for the heart. It's going to give out any day now – okay so they gave me a month, tops. Honestly, if I had the energy I'd be out in the hall doing laps just to hurry it up.

I'd also add "died of boredom" to my headstone but that wouldn't make sense. I'm dying because I'm a dumbass. I'm only bored because I'm dying.

Maybe I should back things up to the beginning. Might as well. I don't have anything else to do.

* * *

**DAY 1**

We had a gig. Kids turning up missing. Everyone thinks when kids get gone they've been nabbed by a pervert. Well, that isn't always the case. Cops don't know how to read the signs. They look in all the wrong places. When kids go missing around water, and no body ever turns up, odds are it _wasn't_ a pervert or a drowning that got 'em.

The Williams sibs were just your average lower middle-class rug-rats. Latch-key kids, and probably not old enough to be lookin' after themselves, but then sometimes ya got to do what ya have to do. I think me and Sammy are lucky to be alive sometimes. I wasn't much more than six when Dad left us alone for the first time. Sammy wasn't even out of diapers. No problem there, by that time I'd already changed a lot of damn diapers and could do it with my eyes closed. One day when Sam's giving me some shit I'll have to bring that up – you know, if I end up living longer than a month.

These kids were sitting ducks though, not like me and Sammy. I'd known what was out there and I could use a gun.

Rawheads like swamps and marshes best, and the Williams' were renting a house with an old creek bed at the back of the yard. If a rawhead hadn't taken a liking to the place the most dangerous thing about it would have been the mosquitoes. Me and Sam checked it out. As usual the cops probably didn't bother, and why should they? There was hardly any water in the old creek. It stunk like a toilet. There was no sign that the kids had been down there.

Oh, and that was because they were told not to go anywhere near it.

Riiiight. Sure way to get a kid to do something is to tell 'em they're not allowed to do something. When me and Sam were little we tried that a couple times and got our heads knocked together. We learned pretty quick that in our case Dad took following the rules real seriously. He doesn't give orders without a good reason and he expects them to be followed without question – for your own good. That's something Sammy never seems to get.

Of course the Williams kids make a bee-line for the creek as soon as they get the chance. Rawheads like to snag kids that break the rules. Sam says it's about some karmic code or whatever. Like a rawhead has morals. I think the naughty ones must taste better or something.

'Cause yeah - when a rawhead takes a kid you won't find a body. That's how we knew the Williams' kids were still alive. Another kid a block away went missing only a week before the other two did. The rawhead probably already ate and wasn't hungry, but how could it resist a couple of rule breaking kids blundering onto its own turf? That'd be like some sexy nurse walking in the door and offering to blow me right now. I feel like shit. My blood pressure is so screwed up I probably couldn't get it up. But I'm not gonna turn that down. No way. Of course that isn't going to happen. The nurses here make a warthog look like Miss America.

So Sammy fought Dad all the time about the drills we had to do, always trying to get out of doing 'em, always asking questions about why we had to learn it at all. It's hard for him. He didn't get "it's for your protection." It took a while before Sam connected what we did with how we lived. Dad and I tried to keep it from him as long as we could, but even when he figured it all out he didn't understand. Other people had bad things happen to them and they never trained like soldiers or lived on the road all the time. They just got over it and moved on. Sammy didn't understand that most people don't know what's really out there. Since we _did_, we were the only ones who could do something about it.

My point is that Sam hated Dad's version of a higher education. He hated learning to fight. He's good at it, but he hates it. He didn't like handling the guns, was always cutting himself with the knives. Dad rode him all the time too so that didn't help. The one thing Sam did like though was tracking. He's a damn good tracker. I overlook stuff. Sammy can find the most itty bitty clues. I think he's part bloodhound.

Sam found the rawhead's trail right away, and we followed it until we figured out where it was headed. A ratty old house sat down at the end of the stream where the water finally gurgled down into a drain on its way to wherever the hell creeks go – the ocean? I dunno. Wasn't paying _that _much attention in science class. In any case we knew the rawhead wasn't gonna eat the kids right away, and it couldn't keep 'em in the swamp right behind their own house, so it was probably going to stash them somewhere. That place was just as good as any.

To make a long story short – or short_er_ anyway – we were right. The kids were there, scared out of their wits but alive and not hurt as far as I could see. I couldn't see the rawhead either but it was there all right, hiding in another favorite place – under the stairs. Sam probably has some nasty bruises from where he fell when it grabbed him. He's probably sitting on a bag of ice somewhere right now. The rawhead took a nice slice out of his ankle too. I hope he remembered to wash the cut out good. Those things grow germs like nobody's business. It would suck if I died of heart failure and Sam died of some crazy-ass infection two days later.

At least I'd have company, and Sammy's pretty good company – when he's not complaining about something. Used to be he bitched and moaned because he didn't understand stuff. Now I think he bitches and moans because he knows too much. By that I mean he tries to distract himself from thinking too much about things that freak him out. He's got a lot to freak out about right now too. I don't know how he keeps it together sometimes. I hope he can keep it together when I'm gone. I'm scared for him. Maybe more scared than I've been since the fire. Something isn't right. When something isn't right I usually go in with both guns blazing but this...I don't know. I don't have any answers. I think Dad does, and I think maybe he's scared too.

Whatever the answers are, I won't be around when they come out. I'm dying remember? I'm a dumbass.

Because...while Sam got the rug-rats out of the house, I went after the rawhead by myself, no backup. I didn't want to give it the chance to escape and anyway, I figured Sam would be back after he locked the kids in the car. I knew Sam would lock them in the car. When I first started Hunting with Dad and we had to have little Sammy along, that's what we used to do with _him_.

Rawhead and Bloody Bones. Their name fits them. They're nasty things, all scabby and rotting, and they stink to high heaven. The whole basement of that house stunk like it or I might have smelled it out before it came after me. Rawheads are big too, and real fast for their size. If I hadn't seen it coming out of the corner of my eye I wouldn't be dying now. I'd be dead. That thing hit me like a freight train. I lost my weapon.

Things get a little mixed up after that, probably because it all happened so fast. I remember falling. The gun was nearby so I scrambled after it. The rawhead was pretty pissed off by then. I figured it was going to break my neck and then go after Sam and the kids. I really wanted to keep my head attached to my body, and I definitely didn't want it to hurt my brother. It had killed enough. I was going to fry the son-of-a-bitch. I snatched up the taser and fired.

I hit it dead on, at a pretty close range, and knew right away it was toast. A split second after that I realized _I _was laying in water, and _it_ was standing in the same water, and water is a _real_ good conductor of electricity. I had just enough time for the "oh shit!" to pop up in my head before I got nailed.

I never really thought about it before, but after getting lit up like a Christmas tree like I did, I think I would definitely choose lethal injection over the chair. The shock didn't knock me out; I was wide awake when it first hit me and I stayed that way until the very end. I could actually feel the path the electricity took through my body because of the way my muscles contracted. Everything locked up tight all the way up from my feet, to my head, and down both arms. I couldn't let go of the taser. I couldn't yell for help because I couldn't get my mouth open. My jaw was locked up so tight I'm surprised I didn't break any teeth. Strike that yell for help – I probably would have just been screaming, 'cause it hurt like a mother.

It must have blanked me out at some point. I only remember pain, and then suddenly I wasn't in the basement anymore. I was getting little snapshots of what was going on around me but I had a hard time making any sense of it. I guess I must have been going in and out of consciousness. I could hear sirens and muffled voices. People were talking to me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. They sounded like a Charlie Brown cartoon. Sometimes I could see faces - but nobody I recognized – and when I tried to ask for Sam I couldn't. That freaked me out. I remember grabbing something, somebody's shirt, and someone holding me down.

The someone turned out to be Sam because I heard _him_ just fine, telling me to calm down, they were only trying to help. I wasn't sure why I needed help but I trusted Sammy. Besides, I was in no shape to take on any fight. My heart wasn't beating right. I think it must have stopped again because all of a sudden everything went black again and I heard Sam say, "No. Nonono...Dean come on!"

I figured I was dead. I was never going to wake up again - but I did. I woke up really fuzzy in the thinking department, and my head was throbbing like I had super bad hangover. My chest hurt too. It felt like something the size of a Mack truck was pushing down on it. I couldn't catch my breath, and I was tired, real tired. Still half asleep, I thought. Hadn't woke up all the way.

I remember babbling at the nurses but I don't know exactly I was saying to them. I wasn't real with it for a while. I had no idea where I was, how I'd gotten there, or to tell the truth, who I was. The nurses who did talk to me called me "Dan." So did the doctor. I almost corrected him, but by then I was coming around a little more and figured Sam had pulled out an alias. Turns out I was right. My name is Dan. Dan Berkowitz.

Eventually a doctor showed up to talk to me. First thing I asked him was if the Williams kids were okay. They were. They'd been brought to the hospital with me to be checked out and their grateful parents had already picked them up. I asked about Sam and the doctor told me he was still downstairs talking to the cops. He told me something else too:

"Your brother's knowledge of CPR is why you're sitting here with me now."

Didn't surprise me none.

Basic first aid was another one of Dad's drills. Me and Sam both knew CPR. We could set bones and sew up wounds. Sam once told me when he got to Stanford he had a choice of becoming a doctor or a lawyer and he picked lawyer. Personally I think he should have become a surgeon. The nasty cut he sewed up on my leg once barely left a scar. His stitching is that good.

Speaking of Stanford. I want to go on record and say something about my brother. He's not as honest and upstanding as he likes to make himself out to be, which only makes sense. He's related to me and Dad after all, and he was raised the same way I was. Sam would like to be a good citizen and follow all the rules, but the fact is, he isn't and he doesn't.

We moved around a lot when we were kids. Home was either the car or a motel room. Dad got by the same way me and Sammy do now – fraud. Dad can run a great con too. He could officially be called a grifter. Me, I'm just a hack compared to him.

Dad started early, way before he starting Hunting, when he dropped out of school and lied about his age so he could join the Marines. For a high school drop-out Dad's pretty sharp about a lot of stuff. He taught us the best he could, but he knows his limits. If we wound up staying in any one place for more than a week he made sure Sammy and I went to school. I hated it. I was real shy as a kid, and real far behind everybody else no matter where we went. To make up for it I acted out. I was a real smart ass, always in the principal's office. I found out real quick that if I smarted off, people didn't seem so scary, and the other kids would be too busy laughing to notice how dumb I was.

Sammy never had the same problems I did. Still doesn't. My people skills still suck. Sam got Dad's grifter gene 'cause he can charm the pants offa anyone. He will too if he has to, so don't let him fool you with his innocent act. As far as school went, Sam wasn't as far behind as I was because he started school on time. I was four, almost five when Mom died. I hadn't been to school yet, and Dad didn't make me go until Sam was ready too. That tells you how bad it was for me.

Sam liked school, and always did good wherever we went. It shouldn't have surprised Dad as much as it did when Sammy took off for college. I think it was the suddenness of it that made Dad so mad. He definitely wasn't happy to have Sam out on his own, but I also think he felt guilty for not seeing it coming. Of course Dad would never admit that.

To get into Stanford Sam needed his school transcripts and diploma. He didn't have either one. He had taken all the tests and stuff you needed for college but tracking down transcripts from all the schools we went to would have been a bitch and he never bothered to get his GED. So yeah, Sam makes himself out to be all honest and all, but he lied like a dog to get into college. His transcripts were made up. His diploma was fake. I think he even tweaked his test scores a little bit. He's an awesome computer hacker.

I laughed my ass off when he told me he was going to law school. The only thing Sam knew about the law when he took off to California was how to break it.

While little brother was charming the police, lying about our identities, and paying the bill with a stolen credit card, I was lying here in bed with a freakin' elephant sitting on my chest, being patronized by the doctor. Here's a tip: don't try to bullshit someone who deals in bullshit on a daily basis. I saw right through him from the minute he opened his mouth.

The doctor was rolling off a bunch of technical terms and test results to me as if a) I could understand what the hell he was saying and b) I couldn't read between the lines and realize it was a cover. He was beating around the bush trying to avoid telling me something bad. I finally just interrupted him.

"What does all that mean, exactly?"

"It means, that your heart was badly damaged by the shock you received."

No shit sherlock. I'd sorta guessed that already.

"Oh. Kay. What do we do to fix it?"

"Replace it."

I wasn't expecting that.

Wasn't expecting this one either:

"Unfortunately, the odds of us finding a donor heart in the time you have left are very slim, therefore eliminating transplantation as an option."

"How much time are we talking?"

He avoided the easy answer. "If you take it easy you may have two weeks, perhaps a month."

A month. I've got a freakin' month left to live. Oh wait, I have a month if I _take it easy._ I don't want to take it easy! I don't want to lay in bed waiting to die, I want to go and blow out all the stops. Get drunk, get laid – eat, drink and be merry – all that happy horseshit.

But like the Stones say, you can't always get what you want. I'm lucky if I can make it to the bathroom. Pissing on my own is about as wild as I'm gonna get. Ooh! I guess the next time I go I could make it a real adventure and try to stand up while I pee. Whaddya think?

Jesus, this sucks.

I really didn't say much after the doctor dropped the bomb on me. I asked him if he'd talked to Sam (he hadn't) and if I could have a television (he would see what he could do.) I only needed two things, and I told him straight up when he asked.

I needed _him_ to break the news to Sam

I REALLY needed a television

The best way I could think of to get my head screwed back on was to flip through some TV. I needed to blank out, get away from reality for a few. I needed some time before I had to deal with Sam, and while I was dealing with Sam, the TV would give me an excuse not to look at him, especially when he first walked in the door. I _couldn't _look at him. I knew he'd have on that horrible kicked dog expression that I hate. If he started crying I wasn't sure what I'd do, but whatever it was, I didn't want to do it.

At least not in front of him.

He took longer than I expected. I was getting tired, and I was getting cranky. Daytime TV was a distraction all right, it was painful to watch. All I got was Montel, soap operas, and commercials for feminine hygiene products. And who the _fuck_ came up with the Snuggle Bear? Can someone please tell me that? The thing is damn creepy. Animated toys in general are creepy. Chuckie anyone? I totally can picture some poor chick doing her laundry late at night. She starts up the washer, and out of the shadows comes this fluffy white bear. It shoves her head into the washer and hits the spin button...

Death by fabric softener.

When he finally showed up, Sam was not in the mood for any crap and neither was I.

You know I really wanted him to leave. I wanted him to get out and go find Dad. He probably thought I was just blowing smoke with the smart ass comments, hiding how I really felt, but that wasn't the case. I didn't know how I felt yet. I wasn't being smart to cover anything up, I was being smart because I wanted to piss him off. If I hadn't been so damn tired it might have worked. I just couldn't get going enough to push the right buttons.

I just laid it on the line. "I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it."

He says, "Watch me."

Watch you? That's what I don't want to do Sammy. I don't want to watch you watch me die. I don't want to watch you kill _yourself_ trying to find some miracle somewhere that will save _my_ life. What good is it anyway? My life isn't worth shit. You don't need me anymore. I can't help you. Whatever this freaky shit that's going on with you – I don't know what to do about it! It scares the living crap out of me.

And Dad? He doesn't need me either, or he would have taken me with him after the demon instead of dumping my ass and disappearing without a damn word. Like I wouldn't worry? Like I couldn't _help_?

It's just...I don't see the point. I'm tired. I'm tired of everything. I just want it to be over. I want to stop moving around all the time. I want to stop worrying about you and Dad all the damn time. I'm sick of eating mini-mart food and having my clothes stink like grave rot no matter how much I wash 'em.

I'm ready, Sammy. I just don't know how to make you understand. You know that scared feeling I got that night when I saw your room go up in flames, and heard Dad yelling for Mom, it hasn't gone away. I'm always looking over my shoulder. I'm always running. Just like that night. If it happened again, if I lost you or Dad – or God forbid both of you – I couldn't handle it. I just couldn't handle it at all.

This thing, with my heart, it gives me an out. It's a good one too. Nothing gory, nothing real painful and slow. I'll die a hero, saving a couple of little kids. Just let me go, okay?

How could I tell him all that though? I mean if I felt that way why not just shoot myself in the head? Same difference. He wouldn't get it no matter what I said, and I'm not that good at saying stuff in the first place. What do I feel? I feel relief. I know that now. Game over. Time to go home.

God. A home. Is it too much to ask for paradise to be a place of my own? A place where I could just kick back and relax with a comfy chair, a big screen TV and a refrigerator stuffed with beer and pork rinds? Maybe a girl too. A cute girl. And no reason whatsoever to leave home again.

Sam's gonna screw up my afterlife.

"Watch me," he said.

"Watch you what?" I asked him. "You gonna arm wrestle Death, Sammy? Play a little Texas Hold'em? Man, I'm doomed then because your poker face sucks and your upper body strength..."

"I believe in miracles, Dean"

"Well, bully for you, Billy Graham."

That's when the tears started. I guess it does suck to have your dying brother bite your head off when all you're trying to do is make it better.

"Come on, Sammy, don't do that."

"I can't lose you."

Wasn't much I could say to that, because he _was_ going loose me, faith in miracles or not.

I couldn't look at him anymore. I looked out the window instead. I couldn't see the tears, but I could still hear the hitch in his breath. It reminded me of the time when he was six and had the hiccups for two days straight. We tried everything to get rid of them. Nothing worked.

"You'll just have to hook up with Dad..."

Ooh. Boy. That was the _wrong_ thing to say.

"Hook up with Dad?! We can't even find him, Dean! How long have we been looking now? You think I'm going to walk out of here and just run right into him?" He let his breath out in a huff, irritated now. At least the tears had dried up. "How likely is that?"

I abandoned the window. There wasn't anything out there anyway, just a dull grey sky and a parking lot. My chest was starting to hurt. I rubbed it with one hand and even if the monitor wasn't letting me know what was going on, I could feel how my heart was fluttering. The beat was off, skewed a little sideways, and not very strong at all. I was out of breath too. It screwed up my voice. I couldn't get it much past a whisper.

"Why wouldn't you?" I asked. "Have you called him?"

It was Sam's turn to do the not-look dance. "No. Not yet."

"You don't think he'd come." I said flatly, because I was – am – afraid it's true.

Sam looked startled. "No. God, no, that's not it." His face kinda – crumpled. He was on the verge of a breakdown. "I'm just not ready to make that call, you know? 'Hi Dad, it's Sam. How are things going? Killed that demon yet? By the way, Dean is dying.' "

I laughed. " ' Dear Dad. Things are great here at band camp. Got bitten by a rattlesnake. Have twenty-four hours to live...' "

It made him smile, just a little. Meltdown aborted. "I'm not making that call because you aren't going to die."

"There are a few doctors running around this place who'd disagree with you."

"I have hope, Dean."

"You need to have reality, Sam."

We stared each other down. I won. He turned away.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "Look. You just...you get your rest, okay? I'm gonna find a motel."

"Get some sleep yourself, Sammy."

He shook his head. "No. I have work to do."

That's the last thing he said to me, just a half hour ago. After he left one of the nurses came in and gave me some hell. I am supposed to be getting oxygen, but I hate having rubber tubes looped around my ears and stuffed up my nose so I take it off every chance I get. I made a deal with her though - if she brought me paper and a pen, I'd take my oxygen like a good boy.

Now here I sit with a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen, and that damn tubing wrapped around my head while Sam is off hunting his miracle. There's a tap dancing hippo working out inside my ribcage. Even with air shooting up my nose it's hard to breathe. There is nothing but crap on TV.

It's going to be a long day, and I'm seriously not going to be able to sleep tonight.


	2. Day 2

**DAY 2 **

I had a dream last night. More of a nightmare really. I'm surprised I got any sleep at all but I must have. Gotta sleep to dream, right?

I was working a case with Dad. We were on our way there to wherever, just driving, and he kept riding my ass about Sam. _Are you looking out for him? Are you sure you're looking out for him? Someone needs to take care of Sammy. Make sure you take care of your brother._ It finally pissed me off and I started to say something smart back to him, but when I looked over at the passenger's seat he wasn't there and the car had stopped.

It was stopped at a crossroads. There was a man standing there and I got out to meet him. I could tell it was Sam. He's so freakin' tall it's hard not to miss him, even in the dark. He wasn't looking in my direction but I was glad to see him.

"Sam!"

When he turned around I could see it wasn't exactly Sam. His eyes were glowing yellow and Sam would never snarl like that – at least not at me. He said, "It's all your fault."

Okay so a lot of stuff could be my fault. I'll admit that. Wasn't sure what I'd done this time though.

"What? What did I do? Sammy..."

In my dream I start heading toward him and that freaky light goes out in his eyes. Blood goes spreading across the front of his shirt – a lot of it – and his knees start to buckle like someone's pulled his plug. I hurry to catch him before he hits the ground but before I can get there he just disappears – poof – gone. I look down at my hands and they're all bloody. My shirt is covered in it. The dream was so vivid I could even smell it.

There's nothing else that smells like the scent of blood - that sharp, metallic stink when it's fresh, and the God-awful stench it makes when it starts to rot. You never forget it. It's hard to get rid of too – trust me on that. I've washed blood outta my clothes more times than I can count.

The dream doesn't end there. When I look up again I see myself standing behind a gravestone with Sam's name carved on it. I'm still bloody but this time I'm holding a bloody knife in one hand and Sammy's blood-soaked shirt in the other. Dad's there too, smiling this creepy smile like everything was okay. Sam's dead and Dad's okay with it? Huh? I wasn't gettin' it.

Then Dad said something that really scared me. He said:

"Don't worry, you did the right thing. He'll be safe now, Dean."

I woke up yelling. The alarms were blaring on all the monitors. I couldn't breathe. My heart was revved up like the Chevy's engine going red-zone and missing on a couple cylinders. It was running rough and hurt like hell. Nurses and at least one doctor swarmed all over me. I was still caught up in the dream - shouting for Dad, and then Sam. I felt like my chest was going to bust open like the dude from Aliens. I heard the doctor say, "Stay with us Dan..." and I wondered, "who the hell is Dan?"

Then the lights went out for a while. Guess I wasn't in the mood to stay with anybody.

When I came back around the monitors weren't screeching anymore but there was a tube down my throat and an IV in my arm. I must have been fighting somethin' in my head while I was out 'cause they had my wrists and ankles strapped down. The next nurse that came in let me loose and asked me if I wanted off the ventilator. Of course I did - ASAP!

Man, that tube - never want to do that again. If you fight it you'll choke on it, but it's damned unnerving to have a machine do your breathing for you and if you're good to breathe on your own you can't help yourself. I was more than ready to get rid of it. After she yanked that puppy out she told me my heart had stopped. They'd shot me up with something and got it going again. Peachy.

I found out just a little bit ago that during all the excitement I punched an orderly. Broke the poor bastard's nose. Nice to know my reflexes are still kickin' it even though that's probably what did me in. Just call me Kamikaze Winchester.

That all went down early this morning. I still feel like crap, and that damn dream is buggin' me. I'm no psychic, and anyway, I know for a fact it can't be some vision of the future because I don't have much of a future. Something about it though, it's doggin' me. I've got a bad feeling and I can't shake it.

The food here sucks. Lunch was a piece of rubber they told me was chicken, lumpy applesauce, and a salad with wilted lettuce and watery dressing. I had a choice of juice or water to drink. Juice was sour and don't ask me what it was from, probably some wacky foreign fruit nobody has ever heard of. The nurse who delivered this slop was young, but homely as sin and too damn perky. I wanted a gun so bad when she said "It's heart healthy!" in this bouncy, high-pitched, Mickey Mouse voice.

I gave her my best disgusted look. "It's a little late for that," I said, and pushed the tray back at her. "So why don't you go back down to the kitchen and get me a BLT, extra mayo, and a beer. Okay?"

She thought I was kidding.

"I'm serious," I called after her, but she probably didn't hear me because she was laughing so hard, not to mention my voice was toasted. Still is. I sound like a seagull choking on a chunk of herring. The breathing tube didn't help any. My throat totally threw in the towel after that injustice.

I got on the phone and called Sam.

"Food," I croaked.

It didn't surprise me that he didn't recognize me right off.

"Dean?"

"No, dork. It's your crazy Aunt Ethel."

Sam was quick on the draw. He came right back at me. "We have an Aunt Ethel?"

"Smart ass."

"You started it. How are you? You sound like shit."

I rolled my eyes. "That's a stupid question considering I'm on my deathbed."

"Do you have to be so morbid, Dean?"

"Uhmm, letsee...yes. Death is morbid. I'm dying, so I'm allowed to be morbid." He didn't say anything so I kept going. "Look. I'm also hungry. Bring me something to eat will ya."

"Haven't they fed you?"

"They tried. Play-Doh would be more edible than this garbage. Bring me a burger, a pizza, a bag of freakin' chips - something!"

"You're probably on a special diet."

"Yeah, a starvation diet."

"No, for your heart," he said, and if he'd said it in a perky voice I would have gone through the phone and strangled him.

"I'm already dying of heart failure, Sam, what difference does it make? Now get off your ass and get me some food, real food!"

I didn't tell him I was moved just before lunch. They put me in the hospice ward. That's a thrill, let me tell you. Everyone here is dying, and some aren't dying peacefully. I can hear them moaning all the way down the hall. Their families all look like zombies – just goin' through the motions. Twenty-four-hour -a-day gloom and despair, that's what I have to look forward to for the next month. Well, at least I'll have company. Mr. Berkowitz's insurance wouldn't pay for a private room.

Some company though. My roommate is a vegetable. The doctors told his family he would never wake up, that he was brain dead, so they pulled the plug. I guess the part of his brain that does the breathing is still alive though so they're keeping him here until he dies on his own. I overheard the nurses. The guy was in a car accident, went through the windshield of his pick-up and hit a tree head-first. The inside of this dude's skull is pudding. They're just waiting for him to stop breathing but he won't. He just keeps on going, like the Energizer bunny. I made them close the curtain between us. He already looks like a corpse. I might salt and burn him in my sleep.

When they moved me I had to sign a bunch of papers. I signed a DNR order. Sam was pissed when he found out, but I don't want to go out like Roomie over there. I'm not stupid. This morning I should have died. If I'd had the DNR order then I would have. Today wasn't so bad, but I know things _will_ get bad, real bad. Death isn't pretty when everything starts shutting down. If my heart goes out again, I don't want to come back.

Either way it will be hell on Sammy. If we were talking about pulling off a Band-Aid instead of me dying, I'd want the thing to be ripped off quickly instead of a slow, painful peel. Better I go quick than hang around longer than I should.

Speaking of Sam, he came in while I was watching _Wheel of Fortune_. For the record I like the old _Wheel of Fortune_ better, back when you got to go shopping. I always liked to see what happened when they got down to only a couple hundred bucks to spend and had to buy the stupid shit - like the larger-than-life-sized statue of a Dalmatian in a fireman's hat. I was only about nine at the time but man, I was so bummed when they got rid of the shopping.

Sam always watched with me, but we had to turn the channel when _Jeopardy_ came on – at least until he got older. When Sam started being able to answer the questions he made us watch it. He was pretty good. Once we tried to convince Dad to take us to California and let Sammy try out for the kid version but Dad wouldn't go for it. Sam was really upset. I think that's why when he did leave, he went to California. For Sam, California was always like Fantasy Island or something. I'll have to ask him if he was disappointed not to find Mr. Roarke and Tattoo waiting for him when he got there.

He came in looking bent out of shape. "Why didn't you tell me they moved you?"

"Dunno. Forgot." I flipped off the television and gave him a "gimmee" gesture. "What's in the bag?"

"Hardees." He handed it over. "Ham and cheese."

"Thank God. Real food." There were fries and a soda too.

To tell the truth, my appetite has been in the pits, and I really wasn't hungry, but I'd asked for it, so I thought I could at least eat some of it. The soda didn't have caffeine. I'm not allowed to have any. Technically I'm not allowed to have anything like a greasy ham and cheese sandwich with fries either, but I guess Sam had to abide by at least one rule just to make himself feel better.

Sam sat down in a chair beside the bed. He hadn't slept. He lied and said he'd grabbed a nap. I didn't believe him. I practically raised him from a baby. I know when he's lying and I damn well know when he's exhausted. He was exhausted.

"This is Hospice," he said.

"Yeah, I know."

He turned his head and stared at the wall. The only window was on Roomie's side, and the curtain blocked it. I didn't think it was fair that the dude in a coma got the window. Like he's going to look at anything besides the ceiling. Sam had to deal with looking at the wall instead of out the window when he wanted to pull himself together. He was doing a shitty job of it too. When he talked his voice was almost as crappy as mine and I could tell he was really trying hard not to get all weepy on me. I hoped there were tissues in the bathroom. Sam is a sloppy drunk and a sloppy crier. Sometimes he's both at the same time.

"I'm not going to let you die."

"Sure," I said, picking at the fries. Sam had forgotten the ketchup. He dips his fries in mayo – disgusting. "Fine with me."

"I'm serious, Dean."

"I kinda got that the first few times you said it. You had any luck so far?"

He wouldn't answer me. Instead he flinched as someone down the hall let out a yell. "I don't like you being here," he said, changing the subject. Obviously he hadn't found any magic cure yet.

"I don't like me being here either. Luckily it's short term."

"Dean, please."

"I'm not going to pretend, Sam." I said. It came out a little too cold, too snippy. I had to fix that. "Come on," I added – much more nicely. "Just chill out for a little bit and watch some TV with me, okay?"

He wasn't real keen on it, but he did. Hard to deny the request of a guy with one foot in the grave. I gave him the rest of my fries and we watched a couple of old westerns together. After a while though he got the fidgets. I turned the TV off and looked at him. I wasn't planning on telling him about the DNR thing but guilt was getting the better of me, plus I didn't want it to take him by surprise if something happened. He'd probably snatch up the defib paddles and zap me himself. Hell, he might do that anyway, DNR order or not.

I cleared my throat. "I think you should know..." I said. "I signed a DNR order this morning before they brought me over here."

If ida punched him in the gut he wouldn't have looked more hurt. "You what?"

"A DNR. It means do not..."

"I know what it means! Why the hell did you do that? We have a month, Dean."

"A month. A month for what?"

"For me to find a way to help you!" He stood up fast 'cause he was ticked and the big dork almost sent the chair flying. "What if you arrested tonight?"

I didn't tell him about what happened this morning. He still doesn't know, and I think I'm gonna keep it that way. It turned out okay, so I don't see any point in getting his britches in a bind after the fact.

I shrugged. "I'd be dead."

"That's my point! You shouldn't have done that! They could bring you back, give me more time..."

I pointed toward Roomie. "Bring me back? Sure, and what if the next time they bring me back brain dead? Or only half brain dead? I'm not going like that Sam. I'm not going to lay around in adult diapers shitting myself waiting for you to decide whether or not to pull the plug!"

He was pretty damn lucky I didn't drop dead right there and then. My heart was fluttering around like a whirly-gig in a tornado. I had to rein it in real quick. To tell the truth I don't want to die before I have to, but if I have to...

"Sam," I said. "Let me die with a little dignity, okay?"

I got a nod, but he didn't stay. I asked him where he was going and he said he had to get back to work.

There have been stories about faith healers and miracles since – well – forever. In our biz we're supposed to believe in stuff like that too, but all Sam had to do was read Dad's journal to know he was lookin' for a needle in a haystack. Dad's debunked a bunch of so-called faith healers over the years. The Catholic Church takes on the miracle stuff too, sendin' their own people out to investigate and they usually come up empty handed. Real miracles don't happen. There's no such thing. God, if there is one, has better things to do than sit around waitin' to play practical jokes on people.

"Terminal cancer? Twenty-four hours to live? Ha ha, just kidding."

When your number is up, it's up. Fate spun the wheel and pulled mine two days ago.

Bingo. You're dead.


	3. Day 3

**DAY 3**

I haven't heard from Sam today at all. He didn't show up in person. He didn't even call. I laid around all morning watching shock-talk. Jerry Springer had on women who'd had affairs and didn't know who their kids' real daddy was. This one kid found out his father wasn't his father and got so pissed he jumped up and slapped the hell out of his own mother. Now that's some serious dysfunction right there.

We've got our issues - me and Sammy have scrapped a few times for sure - but we're not so messed up that we pound on each other regularly when we're pissed. We're more the bellowing type. I think maybe we've smashed some things here and there – some dishes, a chair or two - but never over each other's heads. Dad isn't into physical punishment either. There were times where one or the other of us probably should have been turned over his knee and spanked real good, but he never did it. He's never laid a hand on either me or Sam – except one time. I'll never forget that as long as I live. Uh...yeah. Not a good way to put that is it?

Sam was fifteen and Dad had pissed him off about something – some stupid soccer game he was missing, I dunno, I wasn't paying attention to details. They just got into it like they always did – Dad yelling at Sam for wanting to go off and do his own thing when we had a job to do, Sam yelling back that he didn't really give a crap. The way we lived our life was hard on Sammy. It still is. Dad and me, we screwed him up trying not to screw him up. We protected him too much for too long and then the truth got dumped on him like a freakin' bomb.

Knowing what we know gives us responsibilities a normal Joe doesn't got. Sam was just a baby when everything went down for me and Dad. We tried to keep him out of it but the more we tried to hide stuff from him the more he wanted to know – and when he found out what we were hidin' everything changed for him. Once you lose your innocence to what goes on out there in the dark, you can never go back to normal. I don't think Dad realizes it was as tough for Sammy to leave us as it was for us to let him go.

If his girl hadn't gotten killed the same way Mom did, Sam probably wouldn't be here now. I do what I do 'cause it's _all_ I know, and I don't hold anything against Sammy for not wantin' to play along. If I could give him back the life he had there in Cali with Jess, I would, I really would, but I can't. Nobody can, and that sucks. He doesn't deserve this kinda life. Hell, none of us do really, but someone has to stand up and take care of things, or innocent people will get hurt.

Now I admit I'm kinda touchy when it comes to Mom, but not like Dad is. Nothin' sends Dad over the edge like makin' him think about Mom, and Sam has known that since he was little. Sometimes when they fought, Sammy would bring up Mom just to be a prick 'cause he knew it would really piss Dad off. When it comes to arguing with Dad, Sam has a mean streak – a real mean streak. I don't know why. He's always been like that. The two of 'em are like oil and water.

The day of this particular fight Dad was real tired and not in the mood for any of Sammy's bullshit. He'd just come back from one job and had to go out on another right away. He was wiped, and needed some serious back-up, so he told us we both had to go with him. Like I said, Sam didn't want to go. He had something else planned. Well, Dad wasn't listening to any of _that._ The two of 'em tossed some general angst around for a while, but when Dad finally had enough and flat out told him tough noogies, Sam whipped out the old Mom card. That's when things got ugly.

"You can't stop me from doing what I want to do with my life!" he yelled, or something like that. I don't remember the first part exactly. I do remember what he said after that though. I haven't forgotten it. He said, "This stuff you do – it's bullshit, Dad! You're no hero. You're just saving people to make _yourself_ feel better, trying to make up for your own failure - because you screwed up and let Mom die."

Of course that's not true. Sam didn't know what he was talking about. He was just spouting bull because he was mad. Dad didn't _let_ Mom die, and yeah, maybe he started out wantin' revenge on the thing that killed her, but like I said, when you get too deep, you got no choice but to join up for keeps. Dad didn't want anybody else to go through what he did. He didn't say much about it when we last had hold of him, but it probably killed him to know what happened to Jessica – and Sam.

Anyway, ringside - Dad got so pissed after Sam said that about Mom I thought his head was going to explode. He couldn't even talk and his face turned red. Sam was just as hot. I've never seen either of them as hacked off as they were that day. Even the knock-down, drag-out they had when Sam left for college doesn't compare to this fight. It was bad to begin with, and then it got worse.

I tried to get Sam to back off but he just dug in deeper. He jerked away from me and kept pickin' at Dad. I think if I'd tried to pull him away again he would have knocked me on my ass. Honest to God, I'm not sure he wasn't on something that day. Oh yeah, Sammy has done his fair share of the recreationals. I think he was stoned pretty much his entire sophomore year of high school. His grades were so good though all his teachers looked the other way, and he straightened up after that – too straight if you ask me.

So Sam goes: "You think you can control me, make me into something I'm not, and it drives you nuts that you can't. Well fuck you, Dad. I'm not doing this anymore. You can just take your _job_ and shove it up your ass!"

That's when Dad hit him – and I mean _hit_ him. It wasn't a slap, but a full-on punch right in the face that put Sam _down_. That was wild enough, but what freaked me out even more was the fact Sam didn't _stay_ down. He was fifteen, scrawny as hell, and still a good head shorter than Dad, but he came up off the floor swinging before I could do anything to stop him. He got in a good hit, but Dad blocked it with one hand and laid him out again with the other.

I was yelling at them both by then but they weren't going to listen to me. In fact, Dad turned to me and in this real cold voice ordered me to shut the hell up and get out of the way. I'll admit it kinda scared me, so I backed off and shut my trap. The fight was between him and Sammy, and that's how Dad wanted it to stay.

Sam was pissed, real pissed, 'cause he bounced up like a rubber ball and went at Dad _again _like some kinda fool. Dad put him down with a wild move straight out of the WWF. Used Sam's own momentum to lift him off his feet and body slam him to the floor real hard. Knocked the wind outta him good too. Even if Sammy did have the balls to get up again he probably couldn't have done it. He stayed down that time, but man, if looks could kill Dad would have been hamburger. Sam's face was a bloody mess, he was gasping for breath and crying, but he still managed a nasty glare. Didn't bother Dad. If it did, he didn't show it. He just said:

"You are going on this job, and the next one, and the next one. And if you ever raise a fist to me again Sam I swear I'll..."

I was scared of what he'd say. I didn't want to hear it, so I had to interrupt even if it got me in trouble. It didn't though. All I said was, "Dad!" and he stopped. He never did say what he'd do, and so far, he hasn't had to do it. Maybe it's a good thing Sammy left when he did. And maybe it's a good thing Dad is still AWOL. I hope they don't kill each other when I'm gone.

Lunch today was vegetable soup, and not half bad except that it needed salt. Even the crackers were low sodium – what a bitch – and I was craving something sweet like nobody's business. Sweet and salty. I wanted a Snickers. I got Jello, sugar-free lime Jello. Food shouldn't be that color.

I knew there was a visitor's lobby down at the end of the hall, with vending machines. I also knew that Sam had brought me clothes and there were a couple of singles in my wallet. That Snickers bar was callin' me and I was going to go get it if it killed me – and it really could have.

If I'da known it was gonna take me a half a damn hour to get my pants on I wouldn't have done it, but halfway there was too late to quit. I was committed. I should have _been _committed. By the time I managed to sneak past the nurses station (act casual Dean, even though you look like shit and there's a big plastic bracelet around your arm telling everybody and their mother you're a patient) and get down the hallway, I was gulpin air like I'd just run a marathon.

Guess what I found when I got there. Yep. There were no Snickers in the mother lovin' machine, and to make matters worse, it only took correct change. There was no dollar changer. How's that for a kick in the nads?

All that though – wasn't what made the whole thing suck. What really made it suck was walking past all those rooms down that hallway. People were dying in them. Old, young, people who had just gotten sick, and people who had been in accidents, men, women, children, they were all dying. Some were pretty mobile, like me, and some were like Roomie who wasn't even _there_. The lucky ones were going quiet, without pain, but even morphine couldn't touch the agony some of them were suffering. It was bad. It was like walkin' through a house of horrors.

It doesn't matter who you are, you can't get away from death. I've said it before. Once it gets its claws in you it'll take you under. You might be able to put it off for a little while but that just makes it worse, not just for you, but for everybody around you.

I was sitting there in the visitors lounge trying to catch my breath – and cussing about the Snickers - when this lady sat down next to me. I didn't know who she was there to see, but it was real obvious she wasn't a patient. I was sitting on a big sofa. She could have sat on the opposite end. She could have had any seat in the place, but she came and sat up close to me.

Being sick must have made me more sensitive or something, 'cause I picked up on the message she was broadcasting right away. She didn't say a word, but she was flat out asking me for help.

We can do something about demons, spirits and monsters, but fate? Nuh-uh. I couldn't help that lady save whoever was dying on her any more than someone could save me for Sam, but I did what I could. That counts for something, right?

All she was asking for was a shoulder to cry on, and I could give her that. It's my heart that's messed up, not my shoulders. It wasn't like she asked out loud either, and I sure didn't offer, we just knew it was gonna happen. One minute I'm sitting there watching her out of the corner of my eye and in the next I'm holding onto her. She's shaking and bawling, and holding on to me like I'm her best bud, and she don't know me from Adam.

I've never heard anybody cry like that before. It was like something was being torn outta her. You ever heard anybody talk about "gut wrenching sobs?" Yeah, thats what it was like, and it twisted me up inside too. I thought about how I'd feel if I were in her shoes – in Sammy's shoes. God, Sam. I'm sorry.

I can't help thinkin' I'm lucky to be dyin' before I lose someone close to me - Dad, or Sammy – and it's damn selfish of me to be like that. But sometimes the pain of dying is easier than the pain of being left behind. I've seen what it's done to Dad. I don't want to be left behind. I don't do so good when I'm left alone. I need someone to take care of, 'cause that's what I've done all my life. Sammy'll be okay with it. I know he will. He's might act wussy sometimes, but he's tough, real tough. He's got awesome strength down deep inside him.

There was a box of tissues on the end table next to me. When the lady let me go I gave her one. She took it, thanked me, and then just got up and left. It was the weirdest damn thing...

The nurses tell me her name is Nancy. Down the hall, three doors from my room, her husband of twenty years is dying of cancer. He was a big, strong guy who liked football and NASCAR, backyard barbecues and fly fishing. Took good care of himself, his wife, and his kids. Now he can only lay in bed and cry like a baby because it hurts so bad. He doesn't even know she's there.

Maybe sending Sam away isn't such a good idea. All this dying going on here - I'm starting to get scared. Even if it gets so bad I don't know he's there, even though I know it'll hurt him, I want him to stay with me. I don't want to die alone. Please don't let me die alone.

I got caught by the harpies at the nurses station on my way back to my room. Nasty bitches stripped me down to my skivvies, plugged me in to all my tubes and wires, and stuck my ass back in bed. I wasn't complaining too much. I was wiped. Couldn't breathe, my chest hurt...I tried to sleep but I just couldn't get comfortable. Maybe I got in a half hour of dozing, but not much more than that before I gave up and switched on the TV again.

Not much on. Oprah, some soaps. If I believed in them I'd say what happened next was a miracle. I was saved. Saved from boredom by a messenger of God.

Okay, yeah, so it was just Pastor Jim.

We've known Jim Murphy for as long as I can remember. When me and Sammy were real little and Dad went Hunting, he would leave us with Pastor Jim. That was always fun. We played games and stuff. Jim isn't some stuffy religious yahoo always talking about getting saved because we're all such evil sinners. He knows what's really going on. It was Jim who taught us how to read Latin. He also taught us how to pick locks – and pockets.

Jim got religion when he was in prison serving time for burglary. When he got out he became a Presbyterian minister. Somewhere in between the jail cell and the seminary he started Hunting. He could Baptize a baby on Sunday and on Monday be out there in the dark blowing away the creepy crawlies.

I was real glad to see him. He was the next best thing to Dad.

"Let me guess," I said. "Sam called you."

Jim shrugged and pulled up a chair. "He asked me to pray for a miracle."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "So are you here to deliver one?"

"I wish I could, Dean." He laced his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed. "I came hoping what Sam told me was bullcrap. Looking at you, I can believe it isn't."

"That bad, huh?"

"I've seen corpses that look better."

"Sheesh. You coulda lied." I rubbed my chest – a new habit. It feels heavy inside, like my heart got swapped out with a rock, and it bothers me. "So what exactly did Sam tell you?"

Jim sat back in his chair and gave me a look I recognized. It was his game face, but not the one he wore when he was Hunting or teaching. It was the one he wore when he was standin' in the pulpit delivering a sermon. I didn't want a sermon. I had a feeling, though, that's what I was gonna get.

"He told me the prognosis isn't good."

"That's an understatement."

"My words, not his. He said your heart could give out any time between now and a couple weeks from now, that the doctors don't think a transplant will be forthcoming, and death is inevitable."

I looked at him for a sec, letting all that sink in. It was harsh hearing it from the doctor. Sucked hearing it from a friend – and _he_ had heard it from my brother. Made me realize how tough it must have been for Sam when the doctor told him. I should have done it myself. Coward.

"Isn't death inevitable anyway?" I said finally. "Mine's just coming sooner instead of later."

"You're not even thirty, Dean."

"Yeah, well sometimes I feel like I'm sixty," I admitted. "You know how long I've been at this gig. How many Hunters do you know started as young as I did?"

"Wow," Jim said quietly. "I can't believe John Winchester raised a quitter."

Am I? I don't know. Maybe I am, but I've got a good excuse. Like I told him, I've been at this a long time and I'm worn out from it. Maybe that's why I need to find Dad so badly. Dad can take care of Sammy, let me off the hook for once. I just can't do it anymore.

Especially now with all the crap that's going on with Sam, all that psychic stuff that's freakin' me the hell out. Something's coming, something big, and something bad, and I'm real scared that it's going to be too much for me to handle. I gotta exit now and keep some of my pride.

"I'm not a quitter. I'm not quitting. I've been put out of the game."

"And you're not going to kick dirt on the umpire? That's not like the Dean Winchester I know."

"Come on, Jim! What do you from me? I can't undo this! I screwed up, I got hurt, and it's a hurt that isn't gonna heal."

Jim shrugged. "Not by ordinary means."

"A miracle?" I laughed. "Riiiight."

"That's the business I'm in, and if you think about it, so are you."

I shook my head and grinned at him. "Isn't that blasphemy? I'm definitely no preacher. Miracles aren't my business."

"No," Jim said, giving me another one of his preacher looks. "But I wouldn't call what you do _ordinary_, would you?"

He had me, but only for a minute. I had a comeback.

"Oh, I'm sure if Sam wanted to stoop so low he could keep me around in some form or another, but I doubt any church would approve of how he does it, and how long would it be before he'd have to take me out again? The undead have real short expiration dates on being upstanding citizens."

"Lazarus wasn't a zombie."

"And Sam isn't Christ," I shot back. "Don't ask me to believe in miracles."

Jim nodded slowly, still not letting me off easy. "Do you believe in God, Dean?"

I hate that question.

Fact is I can't say no outright because a lot of what we do to banish spirits and demons and stuff is based on religious rites and rituals. Christian or Pagan, there is always mention of some sort of God in them and_ something_ sure gives them power over the evil bastards we hunt. I can't ignore that, but I also can't be convinced that the power there isn't because the people who came up with these things simply believed in a God themselves.

Faith is a pretty powerful thing all on it's own, I'll give 'em that, but I can't depend on something so iffy as God(s). I have to know for sure before I put my faith in something, or at least have better than average odds before I place that bet. The odds on miracles suck, and I've seen too much bad shit happen to good people who didn't deserve it. Like Nancy and her family.

Like our family.

Mom had faith, but it didn't save her. She always told me there were angels watching over us. Well where the hell were they when she needed them? On vacation? Taking a potty break?

"Pray all you want, Jim," I said. "God isn't going to save me."

"Well," Jim said softly, and stood up from his chair. He put a hand on my shoulder. "If you can't find trust in God, Dean, find it in your brother. Maybe his faith can carry both of you through this."

Maybe, but I doubt it.

Jim didn't stay long. He said he was going to check in on Sam. He said they'd pray for me. I told him to pray for everyone else here in Hospice instead. They'd probably appreciate it more. I told him what had happened with Nancy three doors down and asked him to check in on her and her husband before he left.

For some reason what I said made him smile. "And that right there," he told me. "Is why God believes in _you_."

I'm not sure exactly what he meant, but oddly enough it made me feel a little better.

I fell asleep after Jim left – finally getting some rest – and woke up in time for dinner. It looked and tasted like cardboard cut-outs of the food it was supposed to be, but I was hungry so I choked it down. There wasn't anything on television worth watching, nobody else came to visit, and I still hadn't heard from Sam. I had nothing to do but sit and wait for my time to run out.

I laid in bed for hours listening to the sound of my heart's wonky new rhythm and someone in the room next door moaning in pain. From somewhere further down the hallway I could hear someone else crying – maybe a patient, maybe a visitor, maybe Nancy. The coroner had been there while I was sleeping because one of us terminals did what we're supposed to and kicked the bucket. The nurses were griping about having to make calls so late at night – one to the family, one to the funeral home, one to let hospital administration know they'd have an empty bed available in the morning.

I decided it was time to go when Roomie finally gave up and stopped breathing. His monitor let out a squawk to announce his departure. A nurse came in and turned it off, pulled a sheet over the poor guy's head, and went back out to bitch about having to deal with another stiff on her shift.

I couldn't take any more.

I'm writing this in the back of a cab on my way to Sam's motel. The hospital made a big stink, but they couldn't keep me against my will and had to let me check myself out. Maybe Sam has found his miracle. I guess I'll find out in a few minutes. I can't be disappointed if he does, or if he doesn't. I just want this effin' bowling ball out of my chest so I can breathe right again.


	4. ReVisiting Hours

**May, 2008**

I forgot all about this stuff I wrote when I got zapped hunting that rawhead – found it just today - a few scraps of yellow legal paper stuffed in one pocket of my duffel. I thought I'd burned it a long time ago. I don't know why I wrote it. Sure as hell don't know why I kept it. Sammy keeps up on the journaling, not me.

A lot has happened since I wrote all that down. I guess it's obvious that I didn't die, but it wasn't because Sam found a miracle. I'm only alive because someone else took my place – twice. First it was a guy I didn't even know – Marshall Hall. It was his heart that gave out, not mine. Not going to go into the whole story – I don't have the time – but he was sacrificed by someone who thought they could play God. I was the one she chose to save, and there was a real sweet girl who got screwed on account of it. Marshall's life should have been hers, but it was given to me instead. Maybe I should include Layla in my body count. She's dead because I'm still breathing.

I told Sam there were no such thing as miracles. You don't get anything for free. He didn't believe it so much then, but after all we've been through since, he's starting to see it my way. He doesn't have much faith in anything anymore and I'm sorry for that.

Second time I cheated death it was because Dad made a deal with a demon. Not just any demon either, but _the_ demon. Yeah, we found the son-of-a-bitch. It threw a semi at us and I drew the short straw again. Knocked my spirit clean out of my body, which was jacked up so bad I wasn't getting back into it. Dad went to Hell to get me back, and I killed the demon for him. You could say it was a good thing I was around, but truth is, it should have been Dad, not me. He should have been the one who killed that bastard. He could have also done a better job protecting Sam. I fucked that up too.

Hurts like nothin' else to have lost Dad. God, I miss him so much. At least he managed to escape the Pit.

Yeah, Hell is real, found that out for sure. Still not sure about what's upstairs. Nobody seems to want to escape from Heaven like they do from Hell. Maybe that's a sign it does exist – can't say I'd want to leave paradise to come muck around down here either.

I'm working on making it up to them – Dad, and everyone else who died so I could keep slogging through this shithole life. I'm gonna set it all straight. See, I lost Sammy too, and that wasn't supposed to happen. Sam used to have faith. He believed in miracles and prayer. He shouldn't have died there in the mud, in the rain, bleeding like a stuck pig in my arms. His God should have saved him - but he didn't.

I did.

I brought Sam back. I did the dealing this time. Can you see the trend? No miracles in sight. No God, no guardian angels, just bargains and sacrifices. Life comes with a price tag. Sam's life was expensive. He paid for it with his faith, and I gave up my soul.

In another twelve hours I'm going to die, and I'm going to go to Hell. Sam can't save me without making some sacrifice and I won't let him do that. We're not bargaining with demons anymore, especially not with Sammy's soul. It's been through enough already. We can't pay the price it's gonna take to get me back this time. Looks like death has finally caught up with me. Third time's a charm. Soul's being repo'ed.

I put it off far too long. Death's going to collect interest. I had two chances to go out quick and easy and didn't take 'em. I have a bad feeling I won't be so lucky this time. I don't think the end is going to be quick, or painless – definitely not painless. A lot of people off themselves before they let the hounds get them. That tells you something right there.

I know Sammy will be there until the end, whatever it might be, and even though I hate the idea of him having to go through that, I'm sure glad I won't be alone. Just hope he has enough sense to take off if things get dicey for _him_. I don't want Sam to get his ass killed too. I don't want to go to Hell for nothin'.

My faith in divine intervention is still beyond iffy but I'll admit lately I've been trying to convince myself there are such things as miracles. I need to hold on to _something_ 'cause I know what Ruby says about Hell is true. I can't let myself forget. I've got to remember who I am, what we're fighting for, and why we're fighting for it, no matter what happens, and no matter how long it takes until I can get back.

Jim said God believes in me. Maybe that's the key to faith – just leaving it all up to fate, God, whatever. Maybe I don't have to believe as long as God does, and if he believes in me enough to get me outta Hell, I sure won't be complaining.

I probably should put a match to all this crap, but I won't. Maybe it'll mean something to you Sammy, I don't know. I'll stash it in a place where you'll find it eventually. Hopefully not until after I'm gone though because I know you'll give me that awful girly look that you get whenever I open up about stuff.

Pansy-ass.

Seriously though, Sammy...Sam. Whatever happens tonight, I want you to know...

* * *

"Know what?" Sam asked softly. "You never finished."

Dean looked up from where he had been sitting quietly by the hearth, basking in the warmth of the fire he'd built there. They'd set up in one of their father's old bolt-holes - a quiet cabin in northern Minnesota – in order to regroup after Dean's startling and mysterious resurrection. There was a lot they needed to go over, a lot of blanks that needed to be filled in, and it wasn't going to be easy for either of them.

The first thing Dean had gone about doing was to gather up some wood for the fire. He'd found that since coming back from Hell he always seemed to be cold. The first thing Sam had done was confess to finding Dean's hospital ramblings. Dean wondered, not for the first time, nor the last, why he had kept them.

He swirled the dregs of his beer around in the bottom of the bottle. "I don't remember," he said quietly, and polished off his drink in one quick shot.

Sam smiled slightly as he folded the papers into thirds and tucked them into the book in which he'd found them – only a few days before his brother's return. "Liar."

Dean shrugged. They both knew what he would have written had he the emotional fortitude to do so. It just wasn't in his nature to get so sentimental, even if it was just on paper and only hours before his death. Truth be told, in the end his feelings were just too big for him to put into words, and he had run out of time. Sam figured it out anyway, just like Dean knew he would. They were family after all, and you don't go to Hell for someone if you don't care shit about them.

"So," Sam continued. "_Was_ it divine intervention?"

With a deep breath, Dean got up from his seat and went to fetch another beer. He didn't answer right away, but moved over to the window and stood there looking out into the darkness for quite some time. Sam let him be, and for that he was grateful.

He had no idea how he'd come back. He still bore the scars left behind when the Hell Hound killed him, and the less visible scars he'd received in Hell. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could feel echoes of the agony he'd endured running rampant throughout his body. He'd probably have to deal with some measure of pain for the rest of his life – however long that might be this time.

"Maybe," he said finally, leaning his head against the window pane. The glass was cold. The night had taken on an unseasonable chill that radiated in through the window. Dean was forced to retreat back to the fire. "Sammy," he whispered, staring at the flickering flames. "I just don't know."

What he did know was that resurrection didn't come without a price, and he dreaded the day whatever it was that saved him, came to collect the debt.

Be it good or evil.


End file.
